Baley

And as for what I wish I were reading, Coming Through Slaughter by Michael Ondaatje.

Post your boobies. And no, Ramza, I've got no love for sickly mantits.

This is it. I haven't changed. I'm still a lurker and my posts are still short and useless. Just like this one. I've been around since the first day. Isn't that sad? <{POST_SNAPBACK}> I'm going to laugh - hell, giggle (girlishly, even) - at your social life's wane as stressed by your recently, uh, porked-up register. Tee Hee. Hah. Sort of hypocritical in a eyeless laughing at the purblind kind of way - I know, and definitely assent.

I've read Seize the Day and I've read Jailbird, but as I'm not gonna go into detail, and I'm not gonna evaluate, analyze, criticize, let's just dub them trinkets of the untrife variety (though at least one of them is quite brilliant) and move on to a Larkin poem, Philip Larkin at Famous Poets and Poems.com.

You've mingled your forum buddies and everything's gone topsy-turvy. Poor Lou - Poor Pidesco. T-Model Ford is the man. Let The Church Roll On.

"Gentlemen of the jury" - the judge's speech began; The scene was a crowded courtroom and the judge a stern old man. "This prisoner here before you is a social enemy A lady of the evening and you know the penalty Her eyes reflect the nightlife, her cheeks - they're red with paint, But I knew her mother, gentlemen, why her mother was a saint. Now, I know that she's not like her and yet she might have been, If it hadn't been for pettin' parties cigarettes and gin. We took the night life off the streets and brought it in our own homes While girls beguiled with lipstick danced to saxophones. We opened up the underworld to the ones we loved so well; So tell me gentlemen is it right to send her to a cell? If she drinks while you taught her, and if she smokes you showed her how; So gentlemen do you think it's right to condemn her now? And when you're in that juryroom just remember there and then That for every fallen woman there's a hundred fallen men, And before you render a verdict on what this girl has done Just remember there's a man to blame and that man might be your son. Now, gentlemen, that's my story, my testimony stands This girl is my own daughter and the case is in your hands." - Hank Williams. New York streets where killers walk like Pistol Pete And Pappy Mason, gave the young boys admiration, Prince from Queens and Fritz from Harlem Street legends, the drugs kept the hood from starving; Pushing cars, Nicky Barnes was the 70's, But there's a long list of high-profile celebrities Worldwide on the thorough side of things, Livest kings, some died, one guy, one time one day grabs me, as I'm about to blast heat 40-side of Vernon, I turned well he asked me: "Whatchu up to, the cops gon' bust you!" I was a teen drunk off brew, stumbled I wondered if God sent him, cause two squad cars entered the block and looked at us; I ain't flinch when they watched, I took it upstairs, the bathroom mirror, brushed my hair Staring at a young disciple, I almost gave my life to what the dice do. - Nas. Baby girl - she's always talking, name dropping, hanging late, Drinking, smoking, hates her baby's daddy, craves shopping E popping, Ecstasy taking, won't finish her education. Best friend she keeps changing, Stuck with limitations. Lusting men, many hotels, Fendi Chanel With nothing in her bank account, Fronting she do well. Her kid suffers, he don't get the love he deserves He the Sun, she the Earth, single mom, even worse. No job never stay working, mad purty; Shorty - they called her the brain surgeon. Time flying she the same person, Never matures, All her friends married doing well. She's in the streets yakkety yakkin like she was 12. Honey is twenty-seven, argues fights Selfish in her own right, polite, Guess she's in her second childhood. - Nas. Well I'm sitting on a windowsill, blowing my horn Nobody's up except the moon and me, And a lazy old tomcat on a midnight spree All that you left me was a melody. Rosie, why do you evade? Rosie, how can I persuade? Rosie. And the moon's all up, full and big, apricot tips in an indigo sky, And I've been loving you, Rosie, since the day I was born And I'll love you, Rosie 'til the day I die. Rosie, why do you evade? Rosie, how can I persuade? Rosie. - Tom Waits. And just in case you gents are still on a Lanegan binge, Like Little Willie John. PS:

Can I have you post-count?

Hey man chill don't bring me your negativism I got nothing to do with it man yo man this stuff ain't right I know I know how it's hurting you and how sometimes you feeling so strong so tough so free but you gotta forget about all that and P like I out-Saramago Saramago so don't bring me that stuff he be swinging like a gorilla on me rod I'm down with this man I'm down but you gotta see that this ain't doing the forum any good we're killing it man it gotta breath man it needs to breath and the only way it'll breath is if we get back on topic man yeah that's the right thing man Revan man and Bastila and all those other poor nerd botherers they need our support we keeping them alive man yeah as my man killer Checkbook explained and I reminisce his every word the Revan man he's 43 check for yourself open your mind man keep the flame alive.

That's okay, P, I left the godseed flow during Nights of Cabiria, and Hana-bi, and Grave of the Fireflies, and La Strada, and Limelight, and that film with the little dog and his old man, and, uh, uh, you get the point. PS: The White Sheik.

No no no they all say that man and they're like show me show me let me see it but when you actually fasten your pants hard enough and suck up your beer gut so as to not make a boob of yourself and look in the mirror and think I'ma do it I'ma do it I will survive and you play with your hair in anticipation perhaps even chew on your nails and there's plenty to chew till your lady drops by so you're like in your living room and she's staring at you and you're staring at her and go like this is it I'ma do it I'm down and you all of a sudden insert both hands in the large concoction of hair and dirt and bubblegum you call a haircut and make like Moses and split it in the middle so as to reveal your shame she starts crying and bawling cause it's not a pleasant sight man it's not a pleasant sight man it just don't flow with the ladies that all I know.

I know homeboy I know but you gotta put these things into perspective Malak was an ugly-ass bugger I mean don't get me wrong that was cool and I got his whole ooh ooh I'm tall and ugly and fit and evil shtick that's deep man but it just ain't for me you roger but Revan he was pretty and had his whole future ahead of him a scar like that oh man a scar like that would've splattered his luck with the ladies I mean sure it didn't ruin mine but like I can benchpress the likes Akebono and Bob Sapp Revan he was a frail-ass dude you get me yeah so you can't expect this pimple-wrecked dude not to get all wrinkly after all those years of uncooperative birds and incredibly ugly adjutants it just don't flow that all.

I dunno man I've got a huge wrinkle cause people used to beat me up with crowbars and one day this big-ass peep he had a really really impressive crowbar and he was like chasing me and stuff and I was running as fast as I can run baley run don't let the bully get you run run and I was running faster than ever not traipsing not loitering around aimlessly but running like a mad Durango but this dude he was a total Hummer so he catches up to me and hell I'm cornered cause he a fat motherbugger but lo and behold a tree it's a tree not really big but hardly emaciated either so even though I'm not much of a climber I try to jump in the air catch the stump and make my way up but instead of a perfect superb jump I trip on my shoelaces and furiously hit my head on this protruding architectural thing peasants adorn their porches with booom bang my forehead is totally screwed man and I've got this fat-ass wrinkle more like a scar right in the middle now I'm thinking Revan being a soldier must have gone through stuff like that too right right right?

But what you peeps should be asking yourselves, right about now, is: does it really matter? I know, I know, life is hard and killing your idols harder and the abject idea of maturity and old age especially in the presence of as powerful a being as the Great Lord Revan is a grave thing to muster, master, etcetera... not wholly impossible but not easy either, anyway. Does it matter? Course it bloody does! I mean imagine if Revan was like ewww 60 and gawping at Bastila and all those other chicks or the old dude who was bald and black and cynical and touching and caressing them in their sleep or when they were like totally not there mentally man that be pretty gross so what if he's 43 who are we to judge I mean sure it's kinda or sorta or like totally eww for him to be in the present of Bastila who is a total babe and not for old guys cause old guys are the uber eww and their faces have got wrinkles and dirt stashed round their floating body fat not to mention hair eww eww eww hairy men are totally gross which is why my Raven was perfectly shaved all the time and anyway I'm totally digressing here my apologies what we should be focusing on is the fact that old age is a natural process and we don't wanna mess with mother nature cause then what have we got left get me homey what we got left nothing that's what nothing and anyway it's not like Revan was that bad a dude even if he's old I guess he could still serve space burgers or something.

I mean, sure, non-existent boobs can be a tussle, 'specially when it's late at night and you're fishing for your girl and got nothing to hold on to cause she ain't a porker and you're basically poking at nothingness with your little hands and asking yourself why you didn't pick-up a tranny cause then there'd actually be something to grasp on to in the eventuality of apocalypse and you wouldn't be touching yourself at midnight cause the girl|boy thing she'd be there man laying next to you touching you but now it's too late you gotta face the horrible truth the final gong the dying hours you know that even though you're not really consummately wholly totally gay some any protruding bodypart would be Godsend. Kill this thread.

Yeah, since second base feels like petting a not-very-porky third grader. But really, most gents don't consider third base the ultimate prize, but I dunnoman, whatever floats your boat.

Yes.

Can you actually hear the lyrics in that song you etched a few posts back? Cause if you can, mate, I'd suggest griding it and trampling it and hurling it away away away. I'm only saying this cause I love me some tall, pale Finn and that's the kind of thing that made gab gab and Dawson a possibity, nah, reality. I blame the music. Well, I wish I was in New Orleans I can see it in my dreams arm-in-arm down Burgundy a bottle and my friends and me hoist up a few tall cool ones play some pool and listen to that tenor saxophone calling me home and I can hear the band begin "When the Saints Go Marching In" by the whiskers on my chin New Orleans, I'll be there I'll drink you under the table be red nose go for walks the old haunts what I wants is red beans and rice and wear the dress I like so well and meet me at the old saloon make sure there's a Dixie moon New Orleans, I'll be there and deal the cards roll the dice if it ain't that ole Chuck E. Weiss and Clayborn Avenue me and you Sam Jones and all and I wish I was in New Orleans I can see it in my dreams arm-in-arm down Burgundy a bottle and my friends and me New Orleans, I'll be there - Tom Waits.

You gonna wring your wrists and shout at daddy? I got your letter today And I miss you all so much, here I can't wait to see you all And I'm counting the days, dear I still believe that there's gold At the end of the world And I'll come home To Illinois On the day after tomorrow It is so hard And it's cold here And I'm tired of taking orders And I miss old Rockford town Up by the Wisconsin border But I miss you won't believe Shoveling snow and raking leaves And my plane will touch tomorrow On the day after tomorrow ... And the summer It too will fade And with it comes the winter's frost, dear And I know we too are made Of all the things that we have lost here I'll be twenty-one today I've been saving all my pay And my plane will touch down On the day after tomorrow And my plane it will touch down On the day after tomorrow - Tom Waits.

I dunno, man, I've always lived in fear of nerd-rap, nerd-rock, and the whole nerd chic culture. I mean, public-acceptance? Embarrassment? Eww. Plus - and let's be honest here - most nerd things, or better yet most things commonly associated with the nerd culture, just plain suck the Krakatoa, 'specially when they're winking in self-irony or Fergie-ing (can I say piss? Guess I can) themselves over their witticism. That said, I firmly and wholly admit my ignorance on this topic. It might be funny. It might be smart. It's probably consummately nerdy, on the whole. But let's be honest here (again), there's never gonna be a more hilarious Hip-Hop song than Pac's - though I fear it's mostly unintentional. Poor Pac. And, nah, there are few Sonny & Terry tracks on the tube, and this is hardly one of their famous ones.

Yes - watch it.

I'm not sure, as I've only seen the film [12 Monkeys] on the telly, but I doubt its bundled with 12 Monkeys. I'm talking about the 1962 Chris Marker short La Jetee. Google Video has it, apparently, with both the English and the (original) French narration.

I'll say it, Chris Marker's short is better. I don't have much of an argument, though. Except, I really liked the photography.